Acid Raindrops
by orangesofsymmetry
Summary: Phan. Life is forever a monotonous grey, human eyes fixed on perfection. Humanity is clawing at the very soul of natural beauty, men stripped of passion and love. Just over the horizon a pair of azure eyes wait, hoping for a dreamer to fall.


This was originally written for the Muse fandom (btw I'm deleting all Muse fics from here ha) but adapted for Dan and Phil because it works really well for them too, so here you go.

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This generation's fault begins with what is already ingrained deeply into human consciousness: _to survive over all the rest_. A survivor is not always the most adaptable, the most intelligent, the strongest, but sometimes the one who holds the most physical beauty or power.

A human's most basic instinct is also their largest downfall.

Modern day is an age where beauty is fake, digitally enhanced. Modern day is an age where true beauty is starved, wasted away and hidden, a league of plastic soldiers with glassy eyes and porcelain faces from glossy magazines destroy the perception of perfection. Humanity is clawing at the very soul of natural beauty, men stripped of passion and love for what is real, instead eyes trained on false reality.

In modern day, natural selection is a concept which no longer exists. Only those born into wealth or beauty are most likely to survive, lower classes clawing at their heels begging for their scraps. In the third world, there is no hope.

Only one species is so ruthless to sell bags for thousands while equal numbers die. Profit taken from the women who are starving to feed families of desperate mouths. Only human could be so cruel.

Leaders march into wars, guns blaring and fights matched against men they should call their own. Massacres of the children of the next generation, the men who glorify insignificant figures, eyes tuned to computer screens with blue backgrounds.

Mega-cities thrive under thick clouds of smog, choking and squeezing the throat of the atmosphere, clouds heavy with the burden of rain brewing with chemicals above slick skylines. Century old monuments fall, ungrieved and unheard of by all in a city that doesn't care. No beauty in a place that's supposed to have it all.

In the proud capital of the UK it is forecast to rain.

And over London raindrops of acid fall.

#

In himself, beauty is not something he has ever observed.

He can always see the beauty in the human body, the soft curve of the waist, sinew of muscles rippling under unblemished skin. He is raised to worship the unreal, the fake and the ingrained instinct turns on him, his own stunning beauty diminished in his own eyes.

In tousled brown hair the raindrops fall, scarcely noticed. It is in this place that he detaches himself, for here, the only sounds is the rain, the wind and his own steady breathing. Here he is nothing and yet everything. It is comforting, he finds, to be so alone in a place so large and desolate. It makes him human again.

Here he always reaches the same shattering conclusion, that the Earth holds all the beauty on this planet, that no attempt of the human brain could ever beat the grace of the world that he stands on. It is from his spot at the foot of the valley, where he sees it all, the beauty that a human could never recreate.

Here, the hills roll, mottled by indigo heather. _Natural_. Here, the clouds streaked with violet rumble overhead, icy raindrops descending in thick, blurred sheets. _Clean._ Over to the East the shadow is receding, vivid blue hues behind a spectrum. _Pride_.

The storm fades away into the distance, stunning azure skies and green hills and streaky clouds. The light begins to fade, time never on one's side, sky darkening from powder blue to sapphire to midnight. Only on the horizon is there a shard of cyan, painted with peaches and dusty pink.

A hand reaches for his shoulder, the strangers voice in his ears.

He turns around and the boy's eyes are like the horizon, yet nothing to compare. His eyes are like water upon ice, silver and blue with no real distinction, cold and yet forgiving, and passionately warm. A living contradiction. The stranger does not smile, he needn't when his eyes shine so bright, as he takes off his coat and lays it on his shoulders.

He feels the first embers of warmth flicker on the icy skin of his upper arms, spreading to his shoulders and back.

Only then does the boy smile.

And in the ethereal beauty he finds in his eyes, he finds his solace.


End file.
